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Excerpt from Yve Redeemed:

I slip out of the men’s dressing room of Macy’s–nourished but sick, sated but empty from what I hope will be the last nameless tryst of my existence. My life has been an endless loop of quick fucks and clandestine hookups. I live for and because of them. But I hate it, hate being a succubus.

For millennia I have existed as a sexual parasite upon humanity. I take men inside my body, coax out their essence and thrive. I feel nothing for them other than a fleeting spark of gratitude, at best, contempt at worst. I’m tired of it, all of it. No price is too high to shed the curse.

Now, I seek the one who owns me, to demand my freedom. I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain—one million souls delivered. Tonight I travel to Hell and I’ll either return a free woman or I’ll be destroyed.

Not many realize one of seven portals to Hell lies inside the meat locker of Gold’s Texas Barbeque. The Gold’s know, of course, because it was part of Sol’s contract.

I enter the sparsely populated restaurant and butcher shop between the lunch and dinner crowds. A cacophony of jingle bells on the door announces my arrival. Sol Gold shuffles out to assist me.

“Yve.  Good to see you.” He wipes his bloody hands on a towel looped through the tie of his apron. “You need to use the portal or are you here for some of my world famous pulled pork?”

Mmm, Gold’s pulled pork could tempt a Rabbi to sin. They also make a mean shrimp salad, to totally thumb their noses at being kosher.

“I have an appointment with the Man, millennia in the making.”

Sol’s porcupine brows raise and his jaw slips, jowls jiggling when it bottoms out. “You mean…”

“Yep, I delivered number one million ten minutes ago. Time to cash in.” I give him a half-smile. The smoky aroma of slow-roasted pork and tangy barbeque sauce tantalizes my nostrils. My mouth waters like a rabid Pavlov’s dog.

Poor Sol. He’s been at this game for less than half a century and already he looks so weary and consumed. The Man drives a hard, and often one-sided, bargain. Once upon a time, I thought a million souls easily doable. I should have done the math. Even if I’d delivered a soul a day, a million days is nearly three thousand years. After a while, a girl gets tired of having sex with a series of strangers. When I first started, three a day was a slow pace.  Even three at a time wasn’t unusual during the Roman orgies. Now, I’m lucky if I can muster the energy to snag three a week. A barbeque sandwich is more likely to paint an orgasmic grin on my face than a decent fuck is.

Sol motions for me to step behind the counter and leads the way to the meat locker. He’ll let me out the portal door and reseal it from his side.  Returning is much more complex.